


For Want Of a Competent Government

by LtSaladmander



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Ahsoka Becomes Obi-Wan's Padwan, Ahsoka Travels Back In Time, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anakin Skywalker Goes To Therapy, And A Concerning Amount Of Star Wars Trivia, And Brings All The Rebellion Leaders With Her, And People Forget That, And She's Going to Get It, And So Does Obi-Wan Kenobi, And The Force is Tired, BAMF Ahsoka Tano, Because They're the Only Competent Government In Star Wars, But I Am Armed With Wookieepeida, Does It Still Count As Skywalkers Fucking Up The Galaxy, Even If She Has to Drag Them Kicking and Screaming, Fixing the Jedi Order, Fixing the Republic, Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, Gen, I Have Never Read A Star Wars Book Nor Do I Intend To, I'm Not Sure What My Feelings On Qui-Gon Are But Oh Boy Do I Have a Lot Of Them, If You're Adopted and Married In Respectively, Killing The Empire By Fixing The Republic, Minor Timeline Changes Not Related To Time Travel, Okay I Lied It’s Already Getting Political, Padmé Amidala Was A Founding Member of The Rebel Alliance, Palpatine Will Die, Post-Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, She's Going to Save the Galaxy and the Jedi Order, Shmi Skywalker Deserves Better, Still Mainly Focused on Ahsoka Because I'm Bad At Writing Proper Politics, The Jedi Order is Flawed But Can Be Fixed, This won't be from every time traveler's perspective, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Watch Me Redeem Everyone, and that's a promise, and when Dooku left the Order as opposed to canon, just things like which year Bail became a Senator, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28402500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtSaladmander/pseuds/LtSaladmander
Summary: “Please, can’t we get just one competent government?” a man sighed as he received his fifth funding request back, unopened.There was nothing special about this man. His name was Irdo Gyrk, originally hailing from Chandrila before his need to “see the galaxy” sent him rushing off to the nearest space port, and then his need to eat sent him into the arms of the first steady job he could find. In all, Irdo Gyrk was a plain, unassuming, and all together unimportant man, who worked as a minor assistant to some equally unimportant bureaucrat.This man was just like any other man, this day just like any other day, and his words just like any other low-level government employee frustrated with the slow-turning cogs of bureaucracy. The difference, of course, is that this time, someone was listening.That someone was the Force, and it was an asshole.______________The movers and shakers of the Rebel Alliance are drop-kicked back in time after their respective deaths to their bodies mid-Battle of Naboo.
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano & Everyone, Ahsoka Tano & Jedi Council, Ahsoka Tano & Yoda, Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Bail Organa & Ahsoka Tano, Bail Organa & Breha Organa, Breha Organa & Ahsoka Tano, Everyone & Everyone, Mon Mothma & Bail Organa, Mon Mothma & Bail Organa & Jan Dodonna & Padmé Amidala & Admiral Gial Ackbar, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Quinlan Vos, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Shmi Skywalker, Padme Amidala & her handmaidens, Padmé Amidala & Ahsoka Tano, Padmé Amidala & Bail Organa, Plo Koon & Ahsoka Tano, Shmi Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Shmi Skywalker & Jedi Order
Comments: 54
Kudos: 319





	1. King, Queen, And Spymaster

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to HowTheWorldCouldBe for being my beta reader and suffering through this like five times. You're an actual angel

* * *

“Please, can’t we get just one competent government?” a man sighed as he received his fifth funding request back, unopened.

There was nothing special about this man. His name was Irdo Gyrk, originally hailing from Chandrila before his need to “see the galaxy” sent him rushing off to the nearest spaceport, and then his need to eat sent him into the arms of the first steady job he could find. In all, Irdo Gyrk was a plain, unassuming, and altogether unimportant man, who worked as a minor assistant to some equally unimportant bureaucrat.

This man was just like any other man, this day just like any other day, and his words just like any other low-level government employee frustrated with the slow-turning cogs of bureaucracy. The difference, of course, is that this time, someone was listening.

That someone was the Force, and it was an asshole.

________________

Ahsoka Tano was falling.

As far as she could tell, she was dead. Ahsoka Tano was dead, and she was falling in a darkness so complete it felt as if she was the only thing in existence.

She frowned. This isn’t how she remembered the Force being last time she joined it. Oh, yes, she remembered Mortis, even after all these years. Her memories were vague, confusing and more like a dream than anything else, but, unlike what she told Anakin and Master Obi-Wan, she knew what it felt like to die. It had been distinctly more peaceful than this.

Still at Malachor, then. Hmm… she had been sure she was dead. Being cut in half with a lightsaber didn’t seem good for one’s health. Was she falling from the temple? She must have succeeded in bringing it down. Good. It was tacky.

There was a small voice in the back of her mind that whispered of golden eyes, of a damaged respirator and a voice she knew better than her own, even after all these years, that she promptly ignored. Not now. Later.

The ground was getting closer. Force knows how she could tell, in this place of nothing, but she could all the same.

Death wouldn’t be so bad. She had been prepared to die at fourteen as a Jedi padawan thrust into a warzone, and again at seventeen not as a Jedi, but as a General. She had been prepared to die at nineteen when she joined the Rebellion. At thirty-two, she was no less ready.

She didn’t necessarily _want_ to die. No, she still had responsibilities. Still had people she couldn’t leave behind, as few as that number was these days.

She supposed she didn’t really have much of a choice. She just hoped Rex would forgive her, and maybe take down some Imps in her name. That would be a nice bonus.

The ground rose to meet her faster than she expected, and she braced for pain that never came.

Ahsoka Tano woke up. That, itself, should have been a sign. As Ahsoka understood it, once one joined the Force, you no longer experienced such things.

There was a face above hers, one that looked vaguely familiar, but Ahsoka couldn’t place where, exactly, she’d seen it before.

“Youngling, are you alright?” the face asked.

Ahsoka started. Youngling? It had been years since someone had called her that. Half a decade, at least.

“Youngling?”

 _Master_ _Hen’nona_ , her mind supplied. She was… she was a crèchemaster, wasn’t she? Er– _had_ been, that is. A bothan, kind and more lax than most when it came to staying up past lights out. Why was she here?

A hand brushed against her forehead, and Ahsoka jerked away at the touch. What– why was she able to touch her? That wasn’t– that wasn’t supposed to happen. Anakin had– she shut off that train of thought. The fall. The fall, if nothing else, had killed her. She was supposed to be one with the Force now, wasn’t she?

She vaguely registered Master Hen’nona asking her something. She sounded worried. Ahsoka should reassure her, tell her everything was fine. But it wasn’t, was it? Because Master Hen’nona shouldn’t be here, and she shouldn’t be able to touch her.

Ahsoka reached out to the Force for some sort of answer, and froze. There were so many lights surrounding her, each one burning bright and unique and _alive_. No. _No._ That wasn’t possible. She was _dead_.

No, now she was finally allowed to rest. To put down her ‘sabers, let the next person take up the fight. She had done it for countless others, had stepped up among the ashes of a pyre and continued on, shoving the grief down until she had enough was time to acknowledge it, to grieve for those lost to her.

There had never been enough time.

But the Force was very clear, and the Force hadn’t felt this light since… since she was twelve years old and war had been a distant thing, just a concept they were taught in class. And then there hadn’t been nearly any light left under the Empire, when the Jedi’s blood had long dried on the walls of the Temple.

 _The Temple_. She knew its signature like she knew her own. It was a part of her, even if it had ceased being her home long before it was destroyed. That same signature curled around her now, as if trying to offer comfort.

She was in the Temple. She finally tore her gaze from the near-frantic face above her and cast her gaze around. There was the soft tickle of grass against her back, grounding in a way. The sun shone bright above– but, no, that wasn’t real sunshine, just a very clever imitation.

She was in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Ahsoka Tano was in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, with crèchemaster Hen’nona standing over her, and she was not dead.

No. _No._ _Nonononono_. It was supposed to be _over_. She was– had she not earned the right to peace? Hadn’t she done enough? Had she not fought hard enough, lost enough people? There was an aching grief in her chest that she wasn't entirely sure was her own.

Ahsoka sat up slowly and dared to look at her hands. Hands that were too small, that had never wielded a lightsaber, that had never known what it felt like to take a life. Had never clawed their way back to life with nothing except determination and the wild, desperate fear of death to drive her. Even if she had been prepared to die, there was always some part of her that fought desperately to _live._

Funny, that death would choose now to abandon her, when she no longer feared it.

She touched a hand to her face, just to see if she could, really, and was startled to feel the moisture there. She was crying. Not really surprising, all things considered.

She vaguely registered a person coming to crouch beside her, but couldn't find it in herself to care much. That is, until the person spoke.

“Little ‘Soka?” a very familiar voice asked.

 _No, not him. Not him,_ please, Ahsoka begged. There was a limit to how much she could take at once, and he was it.

But if anyone was listening, they didn’t care, and so Ahsoka forced herself to turn her head and meet Plo Koon’s worried gaze.

“Master Plo,” Ahsoka forced out from a throat that felt like sandpaper.

Her chest ached, as if someone had run her through and left her to bleed. Which, she supposed, they had. She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her throat, the hysterical edge apparent even to her own ears, which were filled with a strange rushing noise.

“Little one, what’s wrong?” Master Plo asked gently, two clawed hands coming to rest gently on her shoulders.

What _wasn’t_? She wanted to answer him, to tell him everything that had happened, about the ache in her chest and the pounding in her head.

The rushing in her ears grew louder. Someone was shaking her, saying her name with an urgency that she ached to soothe, but the darkness keeping over her vision had other plans.

Ahsoka Tano fell back into the welcoming folds of unconsciousness.

________________

Bail Organa was not Force-sensitive. As a boy, he had briefly fantasized about becoming a Jedi when he was older, but the reality of his position as the future head of the House of Organa and a midichlorian count of 2,839 made it little more than that: a brief fantasy.

However, one did not need to be Force-sensitive to recognize the signs of–as one clone trooper had once so eloquently put it–”Jedi Force-bullshit”.

And waking up in the middle of a Senate session that was decidedly _not_ Imperial, with Senator Tikkes in the middle of a proposal about trade route regulations, was decidedly a large sign.

Senator Tikkes hadn’t been a part of the Republic since just before the Clone Wars. (Former) Senator of the Mon Calamari star system, a bit of an asshole when drunk, more than a little corrupt, and–most importantly– _dead._ Killed by Skywalker along with the rest of the Separatist Council on Mustafar. But here he was, alive and well, talking about trade routes. Tikkes had rarely talked about anything else, so it was not much of a surprise that, even dead, he was determined to squeeze out the most money as possible from the venture.

Bail hadn’t even _been_ on Coruscant. He’d been on Alderaan, desperately trying to contact any allies that could lend assistance to–

Oh, _Force_.

 _Leia_. Leia was captured, in more danger than she could possibly know, and he couldn’t do anything. Not without compromising the Rebellion. Duty came first, even if it broke his heart. (The part of him that was not the Viceroy of Alderaan nor the leader of the Rebellion, but Bail Organa, the man who had raised Leia through her teenage rebellion phase that was less a phase and more a state of being, quietly wondered if it was really _Leia_ he should worry about the safety of.)

But he wasn’t on Alderaan. He was on Coruscant. Senator Tikkes was speaking. And, now that he looked closer, he could see several faces that either died during the Clone Wars on one side or another, or disappeared under the Empire. Faces that shouldn’t be here.

But Bail was nothing if not a practical man, so shoved everything, all thirty-plus years that screamed _notrightnotrightnotright_ , into a small box and imagined drop-kicking it out of an airlock.

He tried his best to focus on what was being debated, but that was easier said than done, so he mostly just tried to keep his face neutral and look as if he was paying attention. As a politician, he was practically an expert at it.

He couldn’t tell if it was years or mere seconds before the Senate session was called to an end, and he was able to flee back to his office with a few vague excuses to his colleagues.

Once there, he tried to ignore all the little things that had changed– _that chair had been ruined nearly two decades ago by one over-eager Senator who had forgotten to mind their claws, the vase Breha’s mother had given him one Life Day was missing, he had replaced that bookshelf once he realized just how horrendous the color was_ –and did what he always did when he didn’t know what to do: he commed Breha.

He couldn’t help but pace as the dial tone rang. She might be in the middle of something. It appeared to be in the middle of the day, and the Queen was in high demand. Hell, he had no idea what time it was on Alderaan right now–a sign of just how shaken he was.

But the comm connected, and Bail almost felt his legs give out as Breha’s face came into view.

“Breha,” he breathed, stepping closer, eyes fixed on his wife’s face. “This is going to sound mad–”

“We were on Alderaan,” she interrupted, and Bail felt his eyes widen. “How secure is this comm?”

Bail opened his mouth to assure her that it was his personal comm, not the Senate-issued, before he suddenly recalled just who, exactly, was in this very building. Even as a mere Senator, Palpatine must have had ears everywhere. Intercepting a personal comm, even one as encrypted as the Viceroy of Alderaan’s, would be child’s play.

He sighed. “Not secure enough.”

Breha nodded, expecting no different. “Comm me again in an hour. Use code E.”

Bail felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was a code from the Clone Wars, a standard one, developed for communications between Alderaanian ships involved in the War and Queen Breha herself. Obi-Wan had been there when he’d finalized it and, a bit drunk, the man had insisted on naming it after his commander.

“ _It’s the perfect retribution,” he had claimed, still somehow standing upright despite the sixth glass of wine in his hand. Bail was only on his second. Damn Jedi metabolisms. “He’d hate it, but there’s absolutely no reason he should ever discover it. Thus, I get to continue living, and have my petty revenge, all at once.”_

Bail never did discover what, exactly, the good Commander Cody had done to earn Obi-Wan’s ire, but he suspected it had to do with sedative laced tea. He counted his lucky stars that Obi-Wan never discovered who gave the Commander the idea in the first place.

“Breha,” Bail said, desperate to know he wasn’t alone, that this was real, that she was here. But what to say? There were plenty of things to ask, but only one really mattered. “Leia. Do you–”

“A spitfire of a young woman. Takes after her mother,” Breha said with a smile. “ _Both_ of them.”

Something in his chest eased. Yes, the two of them would figure it out. They would adapt. It was what they did.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Breha’s eyes shone with amusement. “That hardly required thanking.”

Bail resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because Viceroys and Senators didn’t do such things, and Breha would undoubtedly use it to tease him. “I know.”

“One hour. Code E,” Breha reminded him sternly.

He nodded, and watched the image of his wife flicker out. 

“I’m too old for this,” Bail lamented, sitting down in the nearest chair and resting his face in his palms.

The empty room did not offer any response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little dramatic but Ahsoka was just killed by her brother-figure so I feel like she damn well earned a breakdown or two


	2. The Martyr

“Your little insurrection is at an end, Your Highness. Time for you to sign the treaty and end this pointless debate in the Senate.”

Padmé stared at Nute Gunray. Behind him stood a squad of B1 battle droids, the sight familiar as it was completely surreal.

No. Absolutely not. Anakin had, to her knowledge, killed the Separatist Council on that damn planet of fire. So, why in all Sith hells was Nute Gunray here and talking about the Senate? If Anakin had killed _her_ , he better not have spared the fucking _Viceroy of the Trade Federation._

Still, he was standing in front of her. Calling her “Your Highness”. In the Theed palace throne room. On Naboo. With Captain Panaka at her side.

“Viceroy!” an achingly familiar, but surprisingly young voice called. “Your occupation here has ended.”

Padmé turned to see Sabé just outside the door, her face painted in full Amidala splendor, blaster already raised and firing on the two closest droids.

Oh. _Oh._

 _“_ After her!” Gunray shouted at the remaining droids. “This one’s a decoy.”

Well, Padmé knew this script. She dove for the throne and input the code that had been drilled into her head so many times she still remembered just as well as she did when she was actually a fourteen-year-old Queen facing her first military engagement. The arm of the throne slid back to reveal a cache of blasters, and Padmé allowed herself a victorious grin as she grabbed two and spun around, already pulling the trigger. If this was some sort of afterlife, this was a good spot to start. Her day had been very, very long, and shooting at the Trade Federation always improved her mood.

_All I want is your love._

Yes, well, now all she wanted was use a few droids as target practice, and then shoot Nute Gunray in the face, shortly followed by Sheev Palpatine and Maas Amedda. Not Chancellor Palpatine. Not Emperor Palpatine. _Sheev._ The man who had been her mentor, who she had _handed the Chancellorship to on a silver platter_ while their home burned, and who had killed the democracy she so dearly loved. He’d been killing it for years and she had only noticed when it was too late. The Delegation of 2000 never stood a chance, and now it was gone. The Republic was gone. Anakin was gone. Padmé wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him right now. Her lifeforce had drained out of her slowly and taken all her sorrow with it, leaving nothing but a bone-deep anger. She meant her last words. Anakin still had good in him, she believed that. But, if presented with him now (the scrunched faces of Luke and Leia fresh in her mind) she wasn’t sure she could be persuaded to let him live long enough to find it.

She vaguely registered the last of the droids go down, and Captain Panaka shouting about sealing the doors, but all she had eyes for was Gunray. One blaster was trained on him, and Padmé figured she didn’t have any more use for the second one, and so tossed it to Panaka, who was clearly staring and trying not to.

“Now, Viceroy,” Padmé said, her grin razor sharp and her voice colder than she remembered, “we will discuss a new treaty.”

Organizing the aftermath of the liberation of an entire planet at fourteen years old was difficult at best, impossible at worst, but she had done it. As a twenty-seven year old Senator on her second run-through, Padmé was considering jumping off the nearest tower if one more old man tried to tell her how to do her job. Or maybe shoot someone. Who knows. Her emotional state was still a little unstable. She was sure Captain Panaka had noticed. Sabé certainly had, if the glances she kept sending her were any indication. Padmé was resolutely avoiding meeting her eye, which only seemed to incense her further.

It wasn’t until someone notified her that the Jedi High Council was _on their way_ that Padmé remembered her other, decidedly more stressful problem.

A problem that took the form of a dead Jedi Master, the Padawan he’d left behind, and the child version of her homicidal (ex?) husband.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlebeings,” Padmé said to the gathered advisors. “I have some matters that require my personal attention.”

No one protested her leaving, but Sabé did send her a murderous look when she waved off accompaniment. Were they in private, she no doubt would have smacked her upside the head and tagged along anyway, but they weren’t, so Sabé allowed her to slip out of the room with only a glare that clearly said _we’ll be discussing this later_. Padmé made a mental note to avoid her for the next few days.

The halls were flooded with people, each one greeting her with a smile or a cheer, and she tried her best to respond in kind. She wished she was Amidala right now. Amidala could hide behind her facepaint and ornate regalia, and she hadn’t been Amidala for long enough that the mask was a poor fit without them. But she didn’t have any of that, so she would make do as Padmé until she could relearn to be the Queen.

Locating Obi-Wan was incredibly easy. She just checked every garden until she caught the bright spot of cream-colored robes among the greenery. She was unsurprised to find him in the north gardens. It was the wildest of the five–less rigid and more natural in its design. Obi-Wan was sat on one of the stone lips, hunched over with his face pressed into his palms. He had yet to change out of his singed tunic and tabards.

“Hello,” Padmé greeted quietly.

His head shot up. He stared up at her with reddened eyes. She could see the moment he registered her identity. “Your Highness!”

There was nothing more than a passing recognition in his gaze. To him, she was simply the Queen of Naboo. A brief acquaintance, perhaps, as handmaiden Padmé, but not the old friend she saw in him. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. It hurt more than she had anticipated.

But she still remembered his face as he held her children up for her, so she could see them just the once. The sorrow in his eyes that almost matched her own, how he’d stayed with her. Padmé found she did regret her last words, in the end. She should have thanked him. Should have told him how grateful she was. How much she cared.

She hadn’t.

This wasn’t her Obi-Wan–he probably never would be, if this wasn’t some grand hallucination–but he was still one of her dearest friends, and he was in pain.

She gave him a gentle smile. “Just Padmé.”

He still seemed as if he didn’t know what to make of her presence, but nodded slowly. “Padmé. I must insist you call me Obi-Wan, then.”

She almost laughed. So polite, her friend, even in the worst of times. He gestured in a silent invitation to sit with him, and she complied with a quiet thanks. The silence dragged on for a long moment.

“I thought I would check up on how you’re feeling, though I can guess rather well and I’m assuming you don’t wish to talk about it with a near stranger,” Padmé finally said.

Obi-Wan sighed. “I’m alright, Your Hi–” she shot him a look “–Padmé,” he amended.

“No, you’re not,” Padmé said. “You won’t be, for a while, and that’s to be expected.”

He shifted uncomfortably, and she just knew he was biting back some Jedi platitude about how emotions are the root of all evil.

“I also came to offer my help.”

He furrowed his brow in a silent question.

“You have done Naboo a great service,” Padmé explained. “I only wish to see that service honored.”

“The Jedi don’t accept any recompense…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“It’s not,” she said. “It’s an act of a friend.” If anything, this just served to confuse him further. Padmé sighed, and relented. “You plan to take on Anakin, don’t you?”

“As my Padawan learner, yes.”

“Taking care of a child is difficult for the best of us. I am… _aware_ of the animosity between your High Council and Qui-Gon in regards to Anakin’s training, and I doubt you would see much support there.” He flinched at the mention of Qui-Gon, and Padmé's heart twinged, but she continued. “And you have just gone through a great personal loss. Anyone would find a task such as raising a child in such circumstances near impossible.”

She took a deep breath and pulled a comm from her belt. She hadn’t planned quite this far ahead, but the comm wasn’t in use anymore (she refused to think about just why that was) and was one of the few that could reach her personal one without interference.

“Here.” She held the comm out to him, and when he did nothing but stare blankly at it, pressed it into his palm. “It has my personal comm number on it. If you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to contact me. Even if you just need someone to talk to.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes were wide. “Your Hi–Padmé, I couldn’t possibly–”

“Oh, I think you could,” she said with a smile. “In fact, I insist you do.”

Even this young Obi-Wan seemed to know not to try and argue with her, and took the comm without further protest.

Padmé hummed, pleased. Yes, perhaps this afterlife wasn’t so bad after all.

________________

Waking up the second time–still not dead–was markedly less traumatic, and a great deal more annoying. A pounding headache greeted her, as if to say _yes, you’re alive, and it only gets worse from here_. Ahsoka grimaced and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes in a futile attempt to dispel some of the pressure in her skull. It didn’t work. 

“Good morning,” a soothing voice said. “How are you feeling?”

Ahsoka huffed and opened her eyes to peer blearily at a familiar blue Twi’lek. Were she either of her Masters, the sight might have sent her back into unconsciousness as a form of self-defense, but most of Ahsoka’s childhood injuries had fallen under the purview of Kix, so she hadn’t gotten the opportunity to develop anything but a _very healthy_ dose of respect for all medical personnel. 

_“Does the General need something?” Rex asked from where he sat, waving off Kix’s attempt to bandage the nasty cut above his eye._

_“Oh, no, I just wanted to check on the men, and maybe get someone to look at my hand. Some of the shrapnel clipped me,” Ahsoka explained._

_It seemed the entire room froze, and Ahsoka frowned. Was that… not allowed? Was there some rule or protocol in place that she had just broken? She was new, fresh out of the Temple and these men didn’t know her yet, and she didn’t know them. Was she intruding? Oh, Force, she was, wasn’t she. Well, time to turn around and never look anyone in the eye again–_

_“You–” Kix started, and Ahsoka was horrified to see his eyes held a glassy sheen, “You came for medical care? Of your own free will?”_

_“Uh… yes?”_

_Kix abandoned Rex and hauled her to one of the medical beds, which was completely unnecessary and a bit overkill. It was just a bit of shrapnel in her hand. But she still let him carefully undo what was left of her hand wrappings, even though it would have been easier to do it herself, without a word of complaint._

_He met her gaze, face completely serious as he jabbed a finger at her and said, “You. You’re my favorite.”_

“Master Che,” she greeted, and the shape of the words felt foreign in her mouth. “Terrible.”

Master Che hummed, and a cool hand was placed on her forehead. The ache lessened to a manageable level. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Ahsoka said, sitting up slowly– and _wow_ , was she small. She understood why Crèchemaster Hen’nona called her “youngling” now.

Making the executive decision to ignore _that_ little surprise for now, Ahsoka looked around at the otherwise empty room, slowly soaking in all the details that had blurred in her memory. It was a strange contradiction of warmth in the Force and indifference written in every cold, impersonal line of the walls. The contrast was like a balm for her soul. Force, she never thought she would ever _miss_ the Halls of Healing.

“What happened?” Ahsoka asked, dragging her attention back to the woman standing at her bedside.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Master Che said. “You collapsed in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Ahsoka’s brow furrowed. Yes, she did remember most of that. She also remembered a voice that still echoed in her dreams, far more often than Anakin’s ever did. (And to think she had once felt guilty about that). “Was… Master Plo here?”

Master Che nodded. “Yes, he’s the one who brought you here. He stayed for a little while, but the Council was called away on urgent business.”

Ahsoka’s markings raised without her conscious input. The entire Council? That sounded important, and probably not something Master Che should be telling her. Though, judging from the size of herself, Ahsoka might just look young enough that she thought it wouldn’t matter.

Master Che said something more–it sounded like a question–and Ahsoka tried to listen, she really did, but there was still the sting in her eyes and the hand wrapped around her heart that felt like home, but did not feel like her.

She followed the feeling to a gossamer thread in her mind, which Ahsoka was startled to realize was a bond. There were two of them, in fact, both stretching out in the same direction and both full of pain and grief, though the despair emanating from one of them nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. It was a sorrow she recognized, mirrored in the way her head bowed as she said her remembrances each night, time and a mortal memory ripping names from her just as fast as the Empire added them. 

_Who?_ Ahsoka prodded, desperate for any context. She needed to help them, to shield them and protect them from the desolation battering against her mind. _Who did you lose?_

 _Gonegonegonegonegone,_ the voice chanted in a seemingly unending cacophony of loss.

Oh.

She knew that voice. Knew it in joy, in anger. In sadness and pride and grief. In desperation, in contentment.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Who died?” Ahsoka asked aloud without thought, because she’s always been stupid and impulsive when someone she loved was hurt. Master Che paused in mid-sentence and stared.

“Why would you think someone’s dead?” she asked, each word weighed carefully.

Ahsoka couldn’t very well say _because I haven’t felt Obi-Wan Kenobi grieve like this since he left for Mandalore and came back with blood on borrowed armor_ and so settled for the far more vague, “Because someone is.”

Ah, yes, vague and slightly alarming. Master Yoda would have been proud of her. Probably. He was always weird about that sort of thing.

“I’m not sure–”

“It was Master Jinn, wasn’t it?” Ahsoka interrupted, because that was the only thing that made sense. Well, _nothing_ about this made sense, but it at least fit with the rest of the inanity.

Master Che’s silence was answer enough. Ahsoka met her eyes and Master Che looked even more concerned than before.

“Master Jinn has become one with the Force, yes,” she confirmed slowly. “How did you know?”

Ahsoka shrugged. She liked Master Che and all, but she still wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, and she wasn’t about to give up any more information until she did.

Master Che hummed. “I think you should stay overnight for observation.”

Ahsoka heaved a tired sigh, but agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read Chapter 1 the day it was posted, I would recommend going back and re-reading Bail and Breha's section. I edited the end of it a bit, sorry.


	3. A Durasteel Foot In The Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write 95% of this chapter weeks ago and then forget about it? Mayhaps.

Jedi, it should be noted, are terrible gossips. Ahsoka hadn’t been out of the Halls of Healing a full hour yet, and already she’d heard so many different versions of what transpired on Naboo, even _she_ was starting to doubt what was truth and what was rumor. The only thing that everyone could agree on was that the Invasion was over, and Master Qui-Gon Jinn was dead.

She had heard all of this because–contrary to what she’d promised Master Che–she had most certainly _not_ returned straight to the créche. Instead, she had headed to kitchens (door codes courtesy of a version of Master Vos that may no longer exist) and emerged laden with two plates of the finest human-friendly food the Temple could offer. Which is to say, it was exactly like everything else. The quality of the food wasn’t important, really. Ahsoka just needed a foot in the door. A durasteel foot (perhaps to the occupant’s face) would have been preferable, but one made of Corellian tubers and the grilled remains of something that probably once had eyes and legs would have to do.

It had taken most of the night, but Ahsoka had narrowed her options down to “incredibly strong Force vision detailing her entire life from this point on” and “time travel”. So far, time travel was winning. She just wished she was more surprised. But, really, time travel wasn’t any weirder than Mortis. In fact, in comparison, finding herself in the past was almost distressingly normal. She supposed it didn’t really matter which one it was, in the end. Either way, she had a lot of work ahead of her. Most of it would probably involving yelling at people. And so, it was with a rather inordinate amount of glee that Ahsoka Tano halted in front of one Jedi Master Yan Dooku’s quarters and knocked on the door. 

No one answered, though Ahsoka could very clearly sense the presence of a sentient lifeform behind the door. Which was fair, she supposed. The man was probably grieving. The polite thing to do, if one did not know the man would become a power-hungry Sith Lord hell-bent on the destruction of the Republic, would be to turn around and leave. But, unfortunately for Dooku, Ahsoka _did_ know the man would become a power-hungry Sith Lord hell-bent on the destruction of the Republic, and so knocked again, far louder this time. A few moments passed, and Ahsoka had just raised her fist to knock once more when the door swooshed open to reveal a very disheveled Jedi Master. Well, disheveled for Dooku, which meant not a hair was out of place nor a single bit of clothing askew. 

(If Ahsoka squinted very, very hard, she thought she could make out a single wrinkle on his left sleeve. It should not have felt like a victory. It did anyway.)

Disheveled or not, the mere sight of Count Dooku in Jedi robes was almost enough to render Ahsoka speechless. Almost. But she had dealt with a great many shocks in the past two days, and this didn’t even make the top ten. Well, more like top five; the Jedi robes really were quite disconcerting.

“Hello!” Ahsoka chirped, as cheerily as she could, because she felt it would annoy him the most.

It did. His glare might have been frightening, if Ahsoka hadn’t left all her self-preservation instincts on the shuttle to Christophsis.

“What do you want, child,” he demanded cooly.

Ahsoka gave him her best smile and enjoyed the way his eyes briefly flicked down to the rows of razor-sharp teeth on display. She gestured with the hand still holding the two boxes of food, as if that explained everything. He continued to stare at her unblinkingly until she heaved a sigh and relented.

“I brought food.”

If anything, this just seemed to make his eyes narrow further. “I can see that,” Dooku said. “Why did you bring it _here_?”

“You’re planning on leaving the Order,” Ahsoka said without preamble. “And I need to talk to you before you do that.”

His lip didn’t _quite_ curl in derision, but it was close. “Is Yoda sending children to do his dirty work, now? I must say, this is pitiful, even for him.”

“Oh, no, no one’s sent me,” Ahsoka said lightly, channeling her best impression of Master Obi-Wan when confronted with any semblance of danger. Her version involved significantly less flirting, which admittedly did not leave very much to base it on, but she made do. “I just wanted to have a quick chat.”

“A chat.” Dooku’s voice was almost impressively flat.

“Five minutes of your time is all I ask,” Ahsoka promised, and mostly meant it. “Think of it as a poor Initiate seeking wisdom from one of the most revered Masters of the Order. And you get free food out of it.”

When he didn’t explicitly object, Ahsoka decided it was as close to a welcome as she would get. Her new height (or lack thereof) turned out to be very useful when ducking under the arms of annoyed would-be Sith Lords. He didn’t try to kill her, or even draw his lightsaber, but Ahsoka supposed not killing younglings was perhaps the bare minimum for a Jedi Master, so didn’t let it count too much in his favor.

Dooku’s quarters were nearly as cold as the man himself, full of sleek edges and dark furniture that was most certainly _not_ standard Jedi-issue. A truly impressive number of holobooks were stacked on the table and the shelves, nearly all of them looking as if they came straight from the Jedi Archives (Ahsoka really didn’t want to think about how close he and Master Nu must be to convince her to let him take that many and– yup, she was thinking about it now). Some of them were mixed with real books that appeared to be made of honest-to-Force paper. Ahsoka would have expected Dooku to be the kind of man who only possessed the highest quality of goods, but these looked… old. Well-loved. The kind of look you only achieved through hundreds of re-readings. It made her uncomfortable for reasons she immediately identified, and ignored with equal speed.

Ahsoka plopped herself down in front of the table. It was a bit of a relief to set the boxes down. They were actually quite heavy, and she would be the first to admit to cheating a little with the Force. Dooku followed at a much slower pace, his eyes betraying his bewilderment. They were brown, Ahsoka noted. A reddish-brown, sure, but brown all the same. It was an odd moment to realize she had never seen them a sickly yellow.

“Here,” she said, pushing one box closer to his side of the table. “That one’s for you. The finest our honored Refectory has to offer. I don’t really care if you eat it or not, but you look like you could use it.”

Dooku eyed her strangely, but carefully took the poorly (her hand-to-eye coordination was severely lacking as a four-year-old, Ahsoka had discovered) packaged meal and examined it.

“I’m assuming you had something specific in mind?” he drawled after a moment as Ahsoka began to pick at her meat, absently trying to determine what sort of creature it used to be. “Or did you come to harass me on a whim?”

Directing Count Dooku–or Darth Tyrannus, if one felt particularly deferential (which Ahsoka never did)–away from the Dark and towards the Light, or at least a brighter shade of gray, was no small task. She would have to be subtle. Think like a diplomat.

“There’s a Sith in the Senate,” Ahsoka was what said instead.

“Pardon?” Dooku asked, his voice low.

“There’s a Sith in the Senate,” Ahsoka repeated. “If you turn away from the Jedi, he will approach you and offer you untold power. He will wear a familiar face. If you take his offer, even with the best intentions, you will Fall. Everything you fight for, everything you hold dear, will die by your hand. And then you’ll follow.” She didn’t bother to check his reaction, just looked down at her food again with a frown. “You know, I first thought this might be some kind of bird, but I’m almost positive it’s fish.”

“…And you just happen to know this.” Dooku looked amused. His eyes were anything but.

“If I wave my hand and say ‘The Force’ in a funny voice, would that be a sufficient answer?” Ahsoka asked. Dooku leaned back with his arms folded, his expression dark. “No, don’t answer that, because I don’t have another one to give you. You’ll believe me eventually. Probably.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, seeming to register that he was talking with a three-foot-nothing child wearing bright look-at-me white Initiate robes.

“I’m Ahsoka Tano. Pleasure to meet you.” She smiled and offered a hand that he pointedly ignored. 

“I grow tired of this conversation, and your five minutes are rapidly coming to an end,” Dooku said.

“The Jedi Order is flawed,” Ahsoka admitted freely, letting her hand fall. “It’s partly responsible for your former padawan’s death, but your dramatic plans for leaving the Order cheapen your grief. Your lineage did not end with Qui-Gon Jinn.”

_“Dooku’s your grandmaster,” Ahsoka said, and barely heard the words._

_Obi-Wan paused in his speech and peered at her. She didn’t know what he saw there, didn’t know what expression she was making, but it was enough that his brows furrowed in concerned confusion. “Well, yes, he is. Did… you not know?”_

_It was last week that Ahsoka had handed Anakin tools as he hunched over his mechanical arm. An electrical pulse had spared his heart but not the wires. He hadn’t relaxed until the machinery was safely hidden under a black glove she hadn’t put much thought to before. She knew the story, even if he didn’t like to tell it, but she hadn’t–_

_She had just wanted to know why Count Dooku hunted Master Obi-Wan. Grievous did so out of some sort of misplaced pride, and Ahsoka didn’t want to touch whatever was going on with Ventress with a ten-foot pole, but Dooku seemed weirdly personal on a level that just didn’t make sense to her._

_Grandmaster. Her great-great-grandmaster, if that was worth anything. She hadn’t known. It burned at the back of her throat._

_“No. No one told me.”_

“Qui-Gon’s padawan– _your_ _grandpadwan_ –is on his way to Coruscant right now, and he is possibly the only person alive who cared for Qui-Gon as you did. He is young, he is grieving, and he is in desperate need of guidance. Your former student saddled him with a padawan he’s not ready for. _He_ needs you, too.” Ahsoka leaned forward, her eyes as hard a flint. “You say the Order is corrupt, that the High Council will not listen to you, but _you_ are the one who willingly gave up your seat on that very same body. The Jedi Order is flawed. Stay and _fix it_. Fix it for your lineage, and for the years you’ve dedicated to it.”

Dooku didn’t move. He hadn’t even seemed to breathe since Ahsoka first said Master Jinn’s name. It was heavy-handed, and perhaps a bit cruel, but she had millennia of Jedi dogma to punch through before she could reach any semblance of real emotion from him. 

Ahsoka glanced at the chrono on the wall and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “My apologies, Master Dooku. I’ve exceeded my time.” She picked up her food, because she hadn’t actually gotten to eat much of any of it, and gave a shallow bow. “Good day, Yan Dooku.”

She turned, and it was a testament to how different this man was from Count Dooku of Serenno that she walked out alive.

________________

Back and forth and back again, Bail could feel his wife’s gaze like a physical weight as he paced along the length of the ship. There wasn’t much length to speak of, just barely big enough to host maybe three people in an emergency. The ship was designed for speed, not comfort, and it showed. The lounge was sparse, made solely of two couches pressed against opposite walls, a holotable in the middle, and if Bail continued, a giant furrow worn into the metal floor.

“You’re spiraling, my love,” Breha said as Bail continued to pace. “Slow down and talk to me.”

“Right, right, of course,” Bail said, stopping in place to rub at his temples. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, the tense line of his shoulders easing as he stepped into the skin of Bail Organa, leader and founder of the Rebel Alliance.

“Palpatine’s just been elected,” Bail said. “I don’t doubt the man has half the galaxy in his pocket by now, but the wider public hasn’t had a chance to form an opinion. Right now, if it weren’t for the election, most people wouldn’t know his name from a hole in the ground. We have the chance to destroy his golden image before it’s even formed.”

Breha hummed, tilting her head as she considered. Her hair was still piled upon her head in the elaborate braids interwoven with beads that she wore for matters of state. Something warm and fond swirled in Bail’s chest as he noted that she must have jumped on the nearest ship without even taking the time to change. “What do you have in mind?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Palpatine had won last time. Sharp words and a sharper smile had earned him an Empire. The Senate had _given him_ an Empire. Palpatine had handed them the blade and they had driven it through their own hearts and thanked the man for keeping it sharp.

Bail was, at his core, an honest man. Maybe once he had been more than that–when he was young had yet to be trained in empty smiles and empty words, before the years as the heir to House Organa, in the Senate, under the thumb of the Empire–maybe once he had been a truthful man, even an open one, but those traits had long faded. Still, he _remained_ an honest man.

Bail was good at manipulation. He had tried in vain to pass the skill onto a fresh-faced Senator from Naboo who believed far too much in the goodness of people to ever truly hone the skill, but he’d found success in the daughter they shared. Bail was good at manipulation, good at subterfuge, but he was an honest man, and Palpatine was a Sith Lord hiding in plain sight.

Bail was also, it should be noted, a very pissed-off man, and the subject of his ire was an over-confident _ass_.

“We need to get the names of everyone who supported Finis Valorum, or raised concerns about Palpatine,” Bail decided. “Openly or not. Those will be the easiest to sway at this point.”

As much as Bail hated to admit it, the atrocities of the Empire had made the Alliance’s job exponentially easier. The Empire didn’t hide what it was. Most of their new recruits were former loyalists who had been burned by their own government. But the insidious kind of corruption that ran through the Republic’s veins was easy to ignore, if you weren’t the one directly affected. Swaying public opinion would be a slow, possibly fruitless endeavor, but an important one, nonetheless.

The problem, Bail reflected, was that at this point in time, he was supposed to be a fresh-faced Senator, still wet behind the ears in intergalactic politics. He had yet to acquire the connections and political clout he had gained during his tenure in the Senate. Oh, he still plenty of connections, of course, but not on the scale that he would need. Being the Senator of such a prominent Core planet gave him some influence, and Alderaan’s reputation for peace and humanitarian action would carry onto him to some extent, but it wasn’t _enough_.

“Isn’t that too risky?” Breha asked, seeming to come to the same conclusion. “You don’t have the backing to be seen possibly going against the new Chancelor. You’d be dead in the water before the day was over.”

“I’ll have to go slow,” Bail conceded. “I’m a new face in the Senate, it’s expected that I scope out possible allies. Talking to new people, even politically dangerous ones, won’t seem too out of place. A mix of Palpatine’s supporters and the others should throw anyone off.”

“Garm’s in the Senate currently, isn’t he?” Breha asked, her finger absently tapping against her chin.

“He is,” Bail confirmed with a smile. “We’ll have to wait a year or two for Mon, though.”

Who they really needed was Padmé Amidala, but she was still the Queen of Naboo, and would be for several years to come. Except–

“Padmé,” Bail blurted.

Breha raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“She’s currently dealing the aftermath of the Naboo Invasion–”

“And you want Alderaan to extend aid,” Breha finished. She tilted her head slightly as she thought it over.

“It would reflect poorly on Palpatine,” she said, a sudden light coming into her gaze. “An unaffiliated system doing more to support the Chancelor’s own planet than him, particularly after the events surrounding his rise to office. I’m sure there are already whispers about his grab for power. All you would have to do is feed the flames. Yes, that could work.”

It would be an excellent distraction from some of their more treasonous activities, as well.

“It can’t just be Naboo,” Bail pointed out. He moved to join Breha on the small couch, leaning towards her as he spoke intently. “It’s a good place to start, with the Invasion, but a one-off will look like a piss-poor attempt to garner favor with the new Chancellor.”

Breha sighed. “Why am I not surprised you’ve found your way to a humanitarian force?” she asked, eyes shining with warmth and exasperation in equal measure.

“You did agree to marry me,” he reminded her with a smile and a wink.

“Mama always did say I had terrible judgment,” Breha said dryly.

He narrowed his eyes. “Your mother adores me, I’ll have you know.”

“Ah, is that why you refuse to drink the wine she gifts you until it’s checked for poison?”

“It’s only ever minor poisons. That’s how I know I’ve grown on her.”

“Like a stubborn strain of fungus,” Breha agreed.

Bail grinned, breathing in the lightened air before it recycled through the ship’s ducts to be piped in staler and darker.

“We need to involve the Jedi somehow,” Bail said after a moment. “We can’t allow them to become scapegoats for Palpatine’s rise to power again. It’s too convenient.”

“My love, the Jedi are not about to involve themselves _further_ in the mess on Naboo. They’re on shaky ground as it is. They did not technically go _against_ the Senate with their stunt, but enough people are annoyed at how easily they bypassed the proper protocols. It’s only Valorum’s direct request for aid that is shielding them, and poorly, at that. It’s in their best interest to keep their heads down, and they know it.”

“Yes, but there’s more to the Order than the Jedi Knights,” Bail reminded her. “The Service Corps help the galaxy every day, but barely anyone remembers they exist. If we slowly acclimate people to the Service Corps, by the time the Senate realizes they’re Jedi…”

“…It will be too late,” Breha said. “It’s not a bad plan. If we can convince the Order to claim the Service Corps more publically, it will be a large step in improving their image across the wider galaxy. Palpatine will have a harder time villainizing them.”

“It would be a good showing in the Senate,” Bail added. “If we intend to nip the Separatist movement in the bud, we need to fix the underlying issues. An active humanitarian force not focused on the Core will lend credibility to any legislation we wish to pass supporting planets typically ignored by the Republic.”

“It’s certainly a start,” Breha agreed.

There was silence for a moment, as Bail met his wife’s gaze with a face thirty-two years younger than his memories.

“Thirteen years,” Bail finally sighed, giving in to the urge to rub his temples. “That will be enough, won’t it? It has to be.”

“It’s possible.” Breha reached out and tugged his hands from his head to gently clasp them in hers. “That’s all we need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rusty_Thebanite, if you're reading this, nice job! You got the Dooku thing right last chapter! Lmao I read your comment and immediately went "how in the hell"


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